Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(93)

“All right then,” she says, trying to conceal how smart she thinks these deductions are. “Why is Graydon buying the resort?”

“They’re investing in you.”

“Or trying to show me how powerful they are.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “These people could sweep you up off the street at a moment’s notice if they wanted to. I mean, the drones, the contact lenses. If it was what they wanted, you’d be in one of their labs for the rest of your life. And I don’t mean to be harsh, but as of a few days ago, there wouldn’t have been a lot of people missing you.”

A chill goes through her, and it’s not just from the ocean wind ripping through the half-open window. It’s because what he said was the truth.

“So why not?” she asks. “Why not just kidnap me and treat me like a lab rat? Why bail out my hometown?”

“Well, for starters, maybe they’re not total monsters.”

“Like Dylan you mean?”

“Yes. And if they bring you in, you become their property, which means you become their problem. If they leave you out in the field, there’s distance between them and what Dylan’s done.”

“OK. And the resort means what?”

“A nice gesture, perhaps. Or a peace offering from the good cop in the relationship.”

“A peace offering that costs millions.”

“Which is chump change to them. But not to you.”

“And that means what?”

“They’ve watched you for days now. It’s clear you’re not going to the police or the press. You’ve shown what you can do to only a small circle of friends. So they’re confident you’re going to do what Dylan’s asked. So now they’re investing in you.”

“Maybe. Or they’re just flexing their muscles. Showing me I can never outrun them.”

She can tell from the way he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel that he doesn’t agree. But he keeps his mouth shut.

That’s progress, she guesses.

“The point, Charley, is that I don’t think you’re being ganged up on. I think you’re in the middle. And that’s a better place to be.”

As he does his fake patrol through town, the words stuck in the middle roll back and forth through her mind.

Is it really better? Of course it is. Anything that diminishes Dylan’s power is a good thing. Had he gone rogue? Was that what their sessions in Scarlet were about? He was preparing to test a drug on her that wasn’t even his?

Take it that chat didn’t go well?

Another text from Marty; this one reminds her of the one technological limitation of her mysterious new gift—no audio. For them, it’s a limitation. For her, it’s a perk.

On our way back now, she answers. I no longer want to strangle him.

Marty’s waiting for them on the front deck when they pull up.

She figures Luke will follow her inside if she just doesn’t say anything, but when she steps from the cruiser, he doesn’t unbuckle his seat belt.

“I better check in back at the station.” If there were any more expectation in his stare, he’d be a kid on Christmas Eve.

“What time do you get off?” she asks.

“Seven.”

“Marty’s grilling.”

“He any good?”

“Come back after you get off and find out.”

His smile fades. “Does this mean I’m back in?”

“It means you should come eat with us.”

“Fair enough,” he says.

She watches him pull away.

“You got an extra steak?” she calls out to Marty, who she’s pretty sure heard the whole exchange from where he’s standing, hands braced against the deck rail.

“I always get extra.”

“Good.”

“You sure you’ve forgiven him, or are you inviting him to dinner because you like him in that uniform?”

“He’s smart,” she says as she walks up onto the deck. The cruiser’s taillights round the last visible bend in the road. “And he says the reason he freaked out the other night is because he was worried about me.”

“Men always say that kinda shit when they fuck up,” Marty growls.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Yep.”

“You got a steak for him or not?” she asks.

“Sure thing.”

“His uniform does nothing for me, by the way.” She heads inside before he can see the lie in her eyes.





33

Once Cole’s made the rounds of the postpresentation cocktail reception, smiling, nodding, chitchatting with those board members present, he slips back upstairs.

He’s one of the first. The carpeted hallways are empty; most of the glass office doors are closed. It’s no surprise his administrative staff is using the presentation as a chance to unwind for a bit, which, at a company like Graydon, means drinking one and a half cocktails out of plastic cups while deigning to make small talk with a coworker who might have a less advanced degree than you.

Inside his locked desk drawer is the personal laptop he’s set up for what may or may not become Phase II of Project Bluebird. He pulls it out, enters his password, and blacks out his soaring windows with the press of a button.